Che cosa è amor
by AMarguerite
Summary: While on his Grand Tour, Sir Percy stumbles across an enchanted castle. He makes friends, gets terribly confused about love, irritates his valet, and gives into the fairy tale. Crossover with 'Beauty and the Beast' becase I'm insane like that
1. Chapter 1

A/N: The title's taken from _Voi che sapete_, an aria from Mozart's _The Marriage of Figaro_, and basically means 'who knows what love is'. I will be the first to admit that I have basically no justification for writing this fic at all. All I can say is, when I was letting my brain relax by watching Disney movies, I went, 'Hmm, _Beauty and the Beast _is apparently set in 18th century France! I wonder exactly when?'. Of course, I then realized that in the musical, Terrace Mann played the original Beast. Who else did he play? Why, Chauvelin, of course! Then… well. I present you with this.

… it probably shouldn't exist.

Disclaimer: I own neither _The Scarlet Pimpernel _nor _Beauty and the Beast_. This was written mostly to amuse myself and to also prove to myself that I really can relate just about anything to the French Revolution.

--

Sir Percy Blakeney could not feel pleased by the countryside as they rode on. It was in remarkably good order and, for once, the peasants seemed happy, but everywhere he looked, he felt something missing… or rather, someone.

He kicked his Arabian stallion into a gallop and leaned forward, focusing only on the wind tugging at his hat and his queue of hair, on the effort it took to ride and to control a thoroughbred, on the sound of its hooves against the dirt roads-

-which now that he thought about it, sounded remarkably like _applause_, and, applause reminded him once more of Marguerite Saint- Just, the thoroughly charming French actress Sir Percy had met a week ago and had not stopped thinking of since. Sir Percy stared fixedly at a point between his horse's ears. This was ridiculous. He had gotten through his life without feeling more than trifling schoolboy fancies for _anyone _and in one performance and two hour's acquaintance, he remained inexorably fascinated with an actress he scarcely knew.

He could not call it love nor did he wish to do so. Marguerite Saint-Just was alluring and bewilderingly wonderful in a way Sir Percy, who found it difficult to put anything serious into words, was at pains to describe. If he had remained in Paris, then he would have been in very great danger of falling so much in love it would sicken even his traveling companion, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who voluntarily read appallingly sentimental poetry on feelings and daffodils. As it was, there had been yet another riot in Paris about to swarm to Versailles, where Sir Percy and Sir Andrew had been staying, and they left for the countryside.

And thus, Sir Percy and Sir Andrew were off on their Grand Tour of Europe.

Sir Andrew was alight with excitement at the prospect. Sir Percy just wanted to go back to Paris.

He would have very much liked to be in danger of falling in love.

The only interesting parts of France, he thought, grabbing his hat before it flew off his head, were the parts where he might possibly run into Marguerite Saint- Just and see just if he could fall in love and what it would feel like if he did. Sir Andrew thought the world of it, after all. Though… now that Sir Percy thought about it, Sir Andrew had never been in love before either, which made his claims of love being the divinest of all passions and the noblest of all sentiments and a great transformative process that lifted man from the mire to join in songs of pure joy with the celestial hierarchies somewhat suspect.

Sir Andrew also had a terribly loud and terribly off-key singing voice, however, so Sir Percy supposed he ought to be grateful Sir Andrew had never fallen in love.

"What a glorious countryside, Blakeney!" Sir Andrew called, galloping up next to him. "Just look around you! Not a single angry mob in sight!"

Sir Percy smiled inanely and pulled his stallion back to a cantor. "Zounds, Ffoulkes, you're easy to please."

Sir Andrew laughed, in such high spirits that nothing could make him the slightest bit unhappy. "Odd's fish, Blakeney, look at this countryside! Have you ever seen such a… blast, there's a word for it. Starts with a b?"

'_Boring_?' thought Sir Percy. _'Bland?_' "Bucolic?"

"Bubonic? Yes! A bubonic paradise."

Sir Percy hid a grin. "Of course, Ffoulkes. Bubonic."

"Everyone looks so happy to be here! Oh look, there's a town. Shall we stop for lunch?" Sir Andrew beamed at him with all the good-natured excitement and affection normally found on the faces of Labrador retrievers.

"Might as well," Sir Percy agreed, as they trotted into the town, the shoes of their horses ringing against the cobblestones. He tried to shake himself out of this- this strange depression of spirits. Yes, he liked Marguerite Saint-Just a great deal and thought her the most beautiful, charming, intelligent, witty, clever-

"Oh, an inn!" exclaimed Sir Andrew. "Reginald will thank us for it. Your valet may have a cast iron stomach, but mine gets queasy if he's in a carriage for longer than two hours. I do feel bad, but he should like Italy very much and that should make up for it."

-passionate, entrancing, dedicated, beautiful-

"Here's the inn, Percy."

-fascinating, beautiful, inexplicable, and lovable woman he had ever seen, but then again, he wasn't even twenty-five. There could be other women who surpassed Marguerite Saint-Just in her innumerable virtues.

Granted, it would be rather difficult to do so, but it was possible.

"Oh, you there! Two rooms please- water the horses will you?" Sir Andrew swung himself down off his horse with the spry bonelessness of someone determined to approve of life and everything in it, and tossed a coin at the ostler. Sir Percy likewise dismounted, feeling more morose about being a week away from Paris than he had felt that morning.

He was young! It was a beautiful day in autumn! He should be happy and- and… too much in love with his liberty to entertain thoughts of love, or even _liking_. Sir Percy forced a smile and watched the townspeople stroll by the inn to the village fountain. Everyone seemed terrifically happy to move through their daily routines, shopping, herding sheep, and engaging in the sorts of cheery rural activities that made Sir Percy think Rousseau might be onto something when he railed against society and waxed poetic about countryside idylls.

Their carriage jerkily drove up with their baggage, halted by some very stupid-minded sheep who couldn't figure out how to get out from in front of the carriage horses. As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop, James Reginald, Sir Andrew's valet, stumbled out into an alleyway and was very noisily sick. Frank Benyon, Sir Percy's valet, stepped out looking as immaculate as ever, and unnecessarily adjusted his white wig.

"Pleasant journey, Frank?" Sir Percy asked.

"It was, sir," Frank said, rather frostily. "I greatly enjoyed half of my newspaper, most of my history on the Roman Empire, and three pages of Fielding's _Tom Jones_, and one game of solitairebefore Mr. Reginald's sickness… enhanced my appreciation for the countryside by depriving me of all traditional sources of amusement."

Sir Percy stuck his hands into the shallow pockets of his white culottes, making his tall figure look curiously stoop-shouldered. "I don't think you would've liked _Tom Jones_ anyways, Frank. Far too scandalous. Did you notice how happy everyone seems here? It's a demmed sight different from the rest of France."

"Indeed sir, it is curious," Frank replied, still rather frostily. "However, I fear my observations went nowhere, as Mr. Reginald also relieved me of the arduous duty of taking notes or, in fact, forming any sort of analysis with the assistance of paper, ink, uninterrupted silence, or the trousers I had put on this morning."

"You changed that quickly inside a carriage?" Sir Percy asked, now in the amused throes of _schadenfreude._

Frank glared at Reginald's back. "Yes, sir. _Three times_."

It really would be horrifically rude to laugh at Frank after all he'd been through. Sir Percy stared up at the newly fascinating sky. Such a shade of _blue_! Like Marguerite Saint- Just's eyes-

Sir Percy mentally slapped himself.

Besides, her eyes were darker.

"Frank, I think Andrew and I can handle the luggage. You go, er… vent your spleen. And wash off in the fountain."

Sir Andrew came out, still smiling, in the thoroughly infuriating way of someone having a much better time of it than everyone else traveling with him. "Oh, Percy, wait until you see the décor! Extremely _rustic_. It's just like the Marquis of Queensbury's hunting lodge, only much smaller and much humbler. Oh, and the furniture's not particularly nice- and I suppose the sheets aren't satin… or silk… do you suppose they're at least from Egypt?"

Sir Percy reminded himself that generations of inbreeding did take a toll, and it was hardly fair to blame his best friend for being so appallingly out of touch with the real world. Sir Percy was the last person to throw stones because God dealt Sir Andrew a bad genetic hand. Sir Percy's own mother had been just about as crazy as they came, after all, and the constant search for doctors to cure her had kept Sir Percy from living in any given place for more than a year. Granted, it… did seem a bad idea to have someone with so little brains as Sir Andrew so sheltered from reality. Sir Percy was almost grateful to his parents.

"They cleared the main room for us," Sir Andrew continued on, though, ever the sybarite, he still looked vaguely worried about the thread-count in his bed-sheets. "Though they said they weren't sure about the bedrooms because the local prince here just married and all the rooms haven't cleared out yet. Everyone's sleeping off the past few weeks of banquets, I suppose. I have to say, I'm not terribly keen on sleeping at a posting inn-"

"Which we have done before," Sir Percy pointed out.

"-well, _yes_, but I had _fleas _after that." Sir Andrew shuddered in remembered horror. "_And _the cat there ruined my best lace ruffles. Perhaps we ought to press on? You know what they say-"

"If you are about to quote poetry," Sir Percy said, "I suggest you let me go first. Ahem. There was a faithful valet/ whose stomach failed to obey./ A rebellion it lead/ up into his head/ And, on Frank's knees did its contents display."

Sir Andrew looked puzzled.

Sir Percy grinned inanely. "Shall we go in Ffoulkes? Oh, and you might wish to see to your man. Poor Reginald don't travel well."

Leaving Sir Andrew to locate and inquire after his valet, Sir Percy stooped and went into the inn. The innkeeper conducted Sir Percy to an antlered chair by the fire, scattering apologies left and right and tugging at his forelock with the interested servitude of one who knew to a _sou _the almost prohibitive cost of Sir Percy's white riding breeches. The rooms were all full, but there would surely be dinner for milor' and if milor' busied himself and his friend for the afternoon then the innkeeper would surely have dinner for them, and would milor' take a bottle of wine for now?

Sir Percy accepted and requested four glasses. After all, Frank and Reginald had had a much harder time of it then him or Sir Andrew.

"Poor Reginald. Left him by the fountain to try and clean himself up." Sir Andrew shook his head and plopped into a chair opposite Sir Percy. "I should have taken Martin. He is just a footman, but he's younger and ought to have more endurance. "

"You talk as if Martin is a horse, not a human being," Sir Percy pointed out.

At that moment, Frank walked in, looking slightly damp, but rather pleased with himself. "I have determined, sir, why the peasants are so happy."

"Let's hear it," Sir Percy said, pouring out the wine, with a semblance of ease that he certainly did not feel. "Ffoulkes, can I tempt you?"

"Always!" Sir Andrew took the cup quite happily.

"According to the innkeeper, the local _seigneur_ vanished ten years ago, and the people of this village and the surrounding area have not had to pay taxes, serve his lordship, mend the roads, hunt down frogs so that his lordship's sleep may be undisturbed, or any of the usual services demanded by a _seigneur _of his tenants in the aforementioned decade."

Sir Percy propped his long legs up on an ottoman. "Ffoulkes, you remember any stories of princes mysteriously reappearing?"

Sir Andrew struggled with the mental gymnastics Sir Percy had demanded. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was, by and large, the best friend one could hope for, but his unshakable loyalty and steadfastness of character and purpose, alas, stemmed from a decided incapability of individual thought. "Zounds, Blakeney! I scarcely remember everyone we met at Versailles; I could hardly remember who _wasn't _there. Besides, I shouldn't be able to tell you the name of every provincial nobleman. He's probably distantly related to the royal family somehow."

"Not closely, I shouldn't think," Sir Percy mused, pouring another glass. "Some nebulous relation from Henri V, more like. Thank you, once again, Frank. Will you take a glass?"

His valet looked uncertain. "Sir, I should hesitate to…."

"Oh take it," Sir Percy replied, with an inane sort of grin. "You must admit you've earned it. What do you think Frank? Speak _frankly_."

Sir Andrew snorted with laughter.

Frank took a cautious sip of his wine. "If you will allow me, sir? Europe is nearly crawling with princes with enough royal blood to give them land, wealth, a title, and all the privileges bestowed by three such objects necessary to happiness but without enough to ever be particularly interesting. Should you feel inclined to visit, sir, you will not need to pretend to remember him."

"What do you say, Ffoulkes?" Sir Percy asked.

"It is only polite," Ffoulkes replied. "Frank, we are ahead of schedule, right?"

Frank nodded. "Yes, sir. The unfortunate circumstances at the end of the banquet for the Flanders Regiment-" i.e. the last banquet Sir Percy and Sir Andrew had attended, as, the next day a bunch of very angry Parisian women dragged canons from Paris to Versailles and tried to kill the queen, because it generally upset the angry Parisian mob when there were banquets when they were starving or when said banquets were for enemy troops likely to attack Paris "- caused us to leave a fortnight early."

"There, Blakeney! We cannot escape visiting now that we've Frank's approval. Besides…." Sir Andrew hesitated and looked worriedly at Sir Percy. Truthfully, Sir Percy had been much less convivial and a good deal quieter since leaving Paris, but it was a state of mind that could not be entirely chalked up to exhaustion. It had lasted now for a week and Sir Percy was so good-humored and went to such lengths to make himself agreeable to everyone that he never showed his bad moods unless it was something very serious. "It- it should be jolly good fun to take a tour of the castle, even if you don't want to meet the people in it!"

"Ffoulkes, you hate historical buildings and the like. Remember when I tried to drag you around the Roman ruins when we went on holiday the year before last?"

"I _liked _the Louvre when we went to go see it," Sir Andrew objected. "I don't mind applying to housekeepers to see nice palaces as long as they _are _nice palaces."

"It appears the egalitarian philosophies of Paris rubbed off on you after all," Sir Percy said dryly. He could not answer why his friend's usual sheltered idiocy irritated him so much at the moment. Sir Andrew was all that was unthinkingly and unwittingly amiable and agreeable, much like a stupider sort of golden retriever, and they generally got along very well.

Sir Andrew, predictably, looked rather puzzled.

"Never mind. Frank, will you see about getting us a picnic lunch? Reginald can see to the baggage and have a lie-in until he regains control of his intestines. Ffoulkes, shall we go explore the beauties of rural France?"

"There was a set of triplets-"

"Not those beauties, Ffoulkes."

"Oh."

"We'll leave then." Sir Percy paid the inn-keeper, who, nearly dancing in anticipation for his tip, give them directions to the castle as well as a healthy serving of village gossip. The prince was lately married to a village girl, he explained, so the castle was always open for guests. Oh, of course, everyone had been very shocked by the marriage because the new princess had been a poor girl- an amazing beauty, yes, but one of those poor, blue-stocking sorts that always walked around with her nose in a borrowed book. A prince would make such a girl his mistress yes, but oh! Not their prince! He had killed his rival, the best hunter in town, in a duel over the new princess's hand in marriage, and now they were married! The prince and the villiage girl, that was. The English milors would like the prince and princess! After all, the English were supposed to be very keen on meeting people who were part of scandals, though very hesitant to take part in them themselves.

As they walked out, Sir Percy saw several townspeople trying to pull Reginald out of the fountain. Frank looked incurably smug.

Sir Percy raised his eyebrows.

"The ancient Greeks and Romans," Frank replied, ever-so-coolly, "established a long legacy of 'taking the waters' to relieve illness."

"My old classics professor would be so proud," Sir Percy replied. "Finally, a relevant application of Greco-Roman customs." He strolled over and single-handedly pulled Reginald out of the fountain. "Gadzooks, man. The ancients did know what they were doin', I suppose, but there can be too much of a good thing. Go change and see to the bags will you? The rest of the afternoon's yours."

Reginald spluttered his thanks and squelched off inside, just as Sir Andrew galloped past.

"You always were the slowest!" Sir Andrew shouted. "Race you, Blakeney!"

The rather hastled-looking stableboy held out the reigns of Sir Percy's horse. "Sir, there weren't no time at all to curry him, 'specially not a thoroughbred like him, and there weren't even any time to take off the saddlebags acause of the other gentleman's horse-"

"Hector can handle it," Sir Percy said, affectionately patting his horse's neck. "Odd's fish, you grow tired of being in one place after a half-hour, don't you? Worse than my father ever was, you great brute, and he had me live in nearly every country in Europe before I was twelve."

Hector the horse flicked its tail lazily, but, as soon as Sir Percy mounted, dashed off with the speed of summer lightening.

It seemed a perfect afternoon, the exhilaration of beating Sir Andrew even driving away Sir Percy's continual moodiness over the lack of one Mademoiselle Saint-Just. It seemed so, that was, until Sir Percy, Sir Andrew, and Frank (who, as Sir Percy remembered, a little too late, had the equestrian abilities of a drunken sloth) found themselves lost, in the middle of the woods, in the middle of a rainstorm, in the middle of a pack of thoroughly determined wolves.

Sir Andrew missed his shot yet again, as Sir Percy dug through his saddlebags in search of the pistols he kept there in case of highwaymen. Following that, Sir Andrew further displayed his amazing brilliance by throwing his pistol.

"Ffoulkes! Guns are _long-range weapons_, _not short-range_ _projectiles_! Gad_zooks_, man, what spirit of stupidity possessed you to _throw a pistol _at a wolf and _miss_?"

"Have you ever tried to reload a pistol in the middle of a rainstorm?" Sir Andrew demanded, his good-humor finally wearing thin after a week of exposure to Sir Percy's own low spirits, an hour's ride in a rainstorm, and a thoroughly random and irritating attack by wolves.

"Sir," said Frank, "I hesitate to interrupt, but we are about to be attacked by wolves once more. I suggest an immediate course of action. Oh look, sir, the lead one is leaping at you now. It was nice knowing you."

Impatiently, Sir Percy pulled out his own pistol and shot the wolf straight between the eyes. The other wolves scattered. His horse reared in alarm, but Sir Percy had spent as much time in the saddle as any Bedouin, and was in no more danger than he had been with the wolf.

"Odd's fish, you fellows," Sir Percy exclaimed. "This ain't any different from a fox hunt on someone else's estate."

"I beg to differ, sir," replied Frank, wiping rain out of his face. "Foxes, though generally considered to be unpleasant, cannot reach the sheer levels of unpleasantness of creatures that can bite off one's limbs and eat them in front of one."

"I notice, _Frank_," Sir Percy nearly snapped, "that you appear to have all your limbs. Unless you bought some very convincing prosthetics, I wonder that you have had _any experience whatever _with the sort of improbable situation you described."

"Oh just stop it," Sir Andrew begged. "Blakeney, you've been next to impossible all week! You seemed better this morning, but- but odd's fish! Either tell us how we've offended you or- or- or just... just stop taking your bad temper out on us!"

Sir Percy didn't know what to say, particularly since he knew his moodiness to be entirely without cause. He scowled at the point just between his horse's ears, and guided Hector around the corpse of the wolf. "Andrew, you must admit that getting lost and then getting attacked by wolves will many any man snappish."

"Not for a week in advance," Sir Andrew pointed out, galloping up beside him. "I know you've always been clever, Percy, but you've never been _clairvoyant._"

"I didn't know you knew words longer than two syllables," Sir Percy replied.

"You're doing it again! What on earth's the matter?"

"If I may interrupt once again," Frank interjected. "There appears to be a castle ahead of us. Might you save your quarrel for when you will not both die of pneumonia?"

Sir Percy turned to glare at his valet. "Frank, you're lucky I was raised in an era of Roussian sensitivity where I was encouraged to believe all men were equal and it was demmed bad form to whip your servants. My father would have had your back torn off."

"I rejoice every day that you are not your father, sir, for that would be physically impossible, no matter how you looked at it, a crime against nature and your poor mother, and the sort of logical fallacy that could stun a philosopher at fifty paces."

"You are not allowed to use logic when I'm trying to prove a point."

"Of course, sir," Frank said, with enough gravity to put Sir Percy in an even worse mood than before.

"Oh both of you stop it!" Sir Andrew exclaimed, looking thoroughly put out. "Look, here's the gate." He dismounted and pushed open the gate, holding it open for the both of them. Sir Percy began to feel inordinately guilty. Sir Andrew had lost his hat shortly after they had been set upon by wolves and the rain bounced off his blond head hard enough to give him a sort of halo.

Frank dismounted first, or rather, he fell off his horse and decided not to even try getting back on. Instead, he knocked at the castle door. Moments later, an excessively pretty brunette in a blue dress opened the door. If Sir Percy had not seen Marguerite Saint- Just, he would have called her the most beautiful woman in the world. As it was, he could admit that she had a very pleasing, gentle sort of beauty that, though much different from Marguerite Saint-Just's brilliance and sparkle, was still enormously appealing.

"Forgive us for the intrusion," Sir Percy said, dismounting and bowing. "We had only intended to apply to the housekeeper to see the castle, but I fear we may have to trespass on your hospitality. We got lost and then attacked by wolves."

"Blakeney shot one," Sir Andrew said, leading his horse up.

"Are you alright?" the woman asked, alarmed. She had a beautiful voice, low and as soothing as a cup of tea with cream in it. "Oh come in, please. You must be soaked. Let me help you with your cloak- you shot a wolf?"

"Er," said Sir Percy, pulling off his saturated gloves. "It was a lucky shot. Oh, demme, I've forgotten my manners entirely." He bowed. "Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, at your service. The one in the wig is my valet, Frank Benyon, and the other is Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, my oldest friend and a much better man than I will ever be." Sir Percy grinned a little ruefully, and Sir Andrew looked surprised and pleased at once. "I am sorry. There's no excuse for bad manners."

The woman smiled. Oh, she was charming when she smiled, even more so than she was when Sir Percy had first seen her. He could even, albeit with a massive internal struggle, keep himself from comparing her to Mademoiselle Saint- Just. "That's an original outlook."

Sir Percy could not keep his surprise from showing. "Odd's fish, I am sorry for you, then."

"You must not have met very many gentlemen," Sir Andrew tagged on. "I _am _sorry for that, Mademoiselle…?"

The woman belatedly dropped a curtsey. "Sorry. I'm new to this still. I'm Belle."

Frank made a choking noise and bowed very deeply, trying to communicate via frantic and unintelligible hand signals to Sir Percy and Sir Andrew to follow his example. Sir Percy automatically made a leg and Sir Andrew, after a moment, caught on and followed suit.

"Oh please, you don't have to do that," Belle said, sounding vaguely uneasy.

"I… didn't think we did, either?" Sir Andrew said, switching to English. "Frank, why are we bowing to an upstairs maid? She's not even the housekeeper. Zounds, you don't bow this low to servants. You're not even supposed to bow at all! Blakeney just bows to anyone in a skirt, which doesn't mean we ought to bow to every upstairs maid-"

"She is not an upstairs maid, sir!" Frank hissed, still bent over. "She is the princess!"

"Oh, oops," said Sir Andrew, switching back to French. He did not have Sir Percy's comfort with the languag, and he had an accent you could cut with a battleaxe, but he could at least express himself. "Do forgive us for not recognizing you, but, as we have… never seen you, I hope that, er…."

Belle blushed. "Oh, please, don't worry about it. Babette?" An extremely pretty maid in a rather revealing uniform flounced over from where she had been dusting the banister. "Would you get Cogsworth, please? Oh, and ask Mrs. Potts to send up some tea for our guests."

"Oooh, more guests?" Babette asked, beaming at the visitors. "And such _handsome _ones too! Ten years without a glimpse of any real men and then a deluge of the handsomest in the land. You truly are a godsend, princess!" She winked at the Englishmen before flouncing off again.

Sir Percy couldn't help but smile, though Sir Andrew and Frank both blushed; Sir Percy had a sort of natural gallantry that secretly delighted in flirtation, though to Sir Andrew and to Frank, the behavior of the opposite sex remained a deeply puzzling (albeit terribly interesting) mystery.

"We have rarely met with such immediate and all-encompassing hospitality," Sir Percy said, gallantly. "Thank you, Your Highness."

"Belle," she corrected, firmly. "We're very informal here. Do you have dry clothes?"

Sir Andrew deflated. "No. They're all back at the inn."

"You look to be just about my husband's size," said Belle.

Sir Andrew perked up immediately. "Thank you! That is very good of you."

"Sir Percy has some of his clothes with him, Your Highness," Frank replied, bowing again. "I packed his saddlebags myself. If I might trouble one of your maids for an iron, I shall not bother Your Highness again."

"But what about you?"

Frank blinked. "What about me?"

"Did you bring dry clothes?"

For once, Frank's obsessive planning and packing had failed him. He actually blushed. "N- not as such, Your Highness, but I can make do without-"

"Nonsense!" She looked at him appraisingly. "You're about Lumiere's size; I'm sure he'd be delighted to lend you something. Once you've all cleaned up, please join us for dinner."

Babette returned with a portly man in a brown coat. "Princess? Here is Cogsworth."

Cogsworth turned out to be a very fussy sort of Englishman with far too much on his plate and a neuroticism about order that could even Frank on his worst days to shame. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. "The duc and duchesse de Neamours, at least, have gone on their way- ah! Princess and, this, I imagine is…?"

"Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet," Sir Percy replied, "and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, baronet, and my man, Frank Benyon."

"Ah, two baronets! And welcome, welcome to France! Though it isn't England, I shall endeavor to make your stay as-" Cogsworth turned to usher them up the stairs and noticed Babette had discovered a new and extremely interesting way to dust the banisters. "Babette, I'm sure the blue bedroom has been cleaned, yes? It was on the schedule."

Babette looked vaguely uncomfortable. "Blue bedroom? Why… yes, of course! Completely clean!"

Cogsworth frowned and snapped open his pocket watch. "It will take five minutes to get these gentlemen out of their wet cloaks and to retrieve their saddlebags. I suggest-"

Babette dashed off with a flash of lacy white petticoat. Cogsworth snorted, but Sir Andrew, at least, was very happy with the view.

Cogsworth cleared his throat. "Yes, well, we may offer you tea, at least, once you are settled. We are not wholly uncivilized, despite the Chanel and the intervening countryside!"

"The mark of any truly polished civilization, tea," Sir Percy replied, turning to Belle. "That and a well-tied cravat." Since Sir Andrew's higher mental processes had shut down in light of Babette's petticoat, and Frank looked positively humiliated at not having planned for an impromptu wolf-hunt and sojourn at a castle, Sir Percy babbled about the only subject that came to mind (clothing) until Babette rushed back down to tell Cogsworth of course the blue bedroom and the green bedroom next to it were ready, and Cogsworth was so _good _at keeping them on time, making _every_ second count-

Cogsworth blushed and almost giggled. "Yes, well, one does try-"

"Would you like me to lead the new guests up?" Babette asked, with a particularly pretty and convincing smile. "Such a _busy_, and such an _important _man must be run off his feet! Of, I couldn't _bear _it, Monsieur Cogsworth, if _I-" _and this with a hand to the heart that conveniently pulled down the top of her gown "- had been around and didn't do anything when some so important got _sick _and had to lose time his busy, busy schedule! Oh, it would terrible, Monsieur Cogsworth! You're always so on top of things and it makes me want to _just _like you."

"Well," Cogsworth said, flattered, "if you do insist, Babette. I must say, it does my heart good to see you taking such an interest in your work."

Sir Percy, behind Cogsworth, hid his grin, and Babette winked at him. "Of course I would be interested in this sort of work, Monsieur Cogsworth."

Sir Percy mimed applause. He had rarely seen a better performance. Well, except when Marguerite Saint- Just-

Gadzooks, and he'd almost been over his irrational obsession.

Well, almost.

Babette lead them up to their bedrooms with a flirtatious charm that put the three of them at ease but none-the-less intrigued Sir Andrew to the point of incoherence.

"Monsieur Lumiere should be up shortly with something to drink," Babette informed them, stirring up the fire in Sir Percy's room. "He's maitre d'hotel, here." She looked oddly proud of this fact. "Mrs. Potts already sent up warm bathwater. Sir Andrew's room is just through that door, there, and I got Luc to bring up an iron, an ironing board, and Sir Percy's saddlebags. Now, would milor like anything else?"

"You have taken remarkable care of us," Sir Percy said, smiling. "I shall mention it to the princess."

"Gnh," said Sir Andrew.

"Oh, milor is far too kind," Babette replied. "Just your being here has made my work far more enjoyable than it has been in years! I'll go fetch some clothes of the master's for Sir Andrew." Like any good coquette, she knew just when to smile and flounce off, leaving them wanting, and did so.

Or at least, did so for Sir Andrew. Sir Percy found himself unfortunately still randomly and inexplicably obsessed with Marguerite Saint-Just. Sir Percy distracted himself by bathing and infuriating Frank by dithering endlessly over which of the two coats he could choose to wear down to dinner.

"The navy does look dem fine," Sir Percy agreed, allowing Frank to tie his cravat, "but it seems rather gloomy for dinner, don't it Andrew?"

Sir Andrew, drying his hair by the fire, nodded. "Oh, indeed. I told you that blue was too dark when you bought it."

Frank folded over Sir Percy's cravat expertly. "Then the green, with the matching waistco-"

"Odd's fish, I never much cared for that waistcoat," Sir Percy lamented, enjoying Frank's expression of repressed exasperation far too much.

"Then the navy-"

"Oh! But the princess was wearin' blue, and all the princesses at Versailles were dem territorial of their colors."

Frank ground his teeth. "Then, sir, it shall have to be the green-"

"But don't you think I look better in blue?"

A knock on the door prevented Sir Percy's premature death via strangulation by cravat. Frank opened the door, leaving Sir Percy to efficiently tie his cravat and then grab a towel to try and finish drying his hair.

"Bonjour Messieurs! I am Lumiere, the maitre d'hotel. Cogsworth tried to send up-" Lumiere snorted "-_tea_, but after all you've been through, I mulled it over and decided you might need something stronger."

Sir Percy liked Lumiere immediately. He was a smiling, bright fellow, all ease and generosity. Along with a spare set of clothes for Frank, he brought up a warmed bottle of mulled wine and three glasses.

"We are sorry to intrude after you had so many guests and such a huge event to celebrate as the prince's marriage," Sir Percy apologized, toweling off his hair with enough tangling force to make Frank cringe.

"Milor, it is a pleasure to have you as a guest here." Lumiere expertly uncorked and poured the wine. "We have not had guests in a very long time, after all!"

"Oh right, the prince disappeared from society," Sir Andrew said, looking extremely comfortable in his loaned dressing gown, in his chair by the fire. "I am sorry to ask, but what happened, exactly?"

Lumiere hesitated for a split-second before passing out the glasses of wine. "The master was a beast of a prince once he reached eleven. Can you blame anyone for avoiding him so entirely he refused to receive visitors to, euh… save face?"

"Oh," said Sir Andrew, nodding. "And I suppose you couldn't convince his parents to send him off to boarding school?"

"And inflict all those innocent schoolboys with his temper?" Lumiere asked, with a wince. "Pah. Besides, his parents died when he was very young. He has been undisputed lord and master since he was five. However, Belle came and life has never been better!"

"To Belle!" Sir Percy said, raising his glass. Sir Andrew and Frank followed suit.

The coquettishly pretty maid from before knocked on the door, her arms full of clothes. "Pardon messieurs," Babette said, her voice nearly a purr. "Madame la princesse sent me with clothing for Sir Andrew."

Sir Andrew suddenly looked very awake and very interested. "Oh, thank you, Mademoiselle."

Frank snorted. He had never approved on Sir Andrew's insistence upon calling every woman he liked "Mademoiselle", regardless of whether or not the woman actually was a mademoiselle- an unmarried _lady_. A maid certainly was not a _lady_, no matter how pretty she was.

"But of course, Monsieur," Babette said, dimpling as she laid out the clothes with a thoroughly seductive charm. Well, it appeared Sir Andrew's stay was going to be infinitely more interesting than Sir Percy's.

"_Babette_," Lumiere said pointedly. "I think Sir Andrew might need to change."

"Well," Babette mused, "I've only ever been an upstairs maid, but I could turn valet in the maitre d'hotel himself asked me to."

"Babette, _mon plumeau_, though we are birds of a feather, I don't think we're flying in the same direction. Sir Andrew is perfectly capable of changing himself."

Babette pouted at him. "What, you don't think I could do it?"

"I think you could do it far too well," Lumiere said dryly, picking up the wine bottle. "Refills, Messieurs?"

"Yes, thank you," Sir Percy replied, holding out his glass. Once Lumiere had poured him a refill, Babette took the glass and poured Sir Andrew a refill. This caused Lumiere some evident exasperation.

"However did someone as charming and delicate as yourself survive under the service of such a prince?" Sir Andrew asked, in a clumsy bit of gallantry.

"Only with the thought that someday I should pour wine for someone as handsome and-"

"Babette," Lumiere warned.

She looked very innocent. "Yes, Monsieur Lumiere?"

Cogsworth bustled up and into the room and tutted at them all.

"Lumiere, dining room! Babette, aren't you on serving duty tonight, too?" Once Lumiere and Babette walked out, arguing with each other under their breath, Cogsworth bowed. "Forgive the intrusion, but dinner will be served shortly." He bowed his way out the door.

Frank forced Sir Percy into the green coat, dressed Sir Andrew in record time, tidied and dried their hair, and got them out the door within the space of ten minutes. Cogsworth led them down the stairs to the dining room and finding the doors locked, turned red and rushed off to find someone with the keys.

Sir Percy at first tried to ignore the voices coming from the dining room because it was simply bad form to eavesdrop, but couldn't ignore it when he heard his name mentioned.

"-and Sir Andrew. They're very-"

"They're _more guests_?"

"Beast, they were lost and got attacked by wolves! Do you remember the last time you turned away someone lost in the woods?"

"I didn't turn your father away!"

"I meant the Enchantress, but what made you think after what she did to you, that it was a good idea to throw the next lost vagabond you saw into your _tower prison_?"

"I don't like guests!"

"Beast!"

As far as nicknames went, it wasn't very affectionate but it did the trick. After a moment, the prince muttered, "Fine. You're right, Belle. Open the doors, Lumiere."

Sir Percy and Sir Andrew exchanged uneasy looks.

Lumiere looked deeply embarrassed when he saw the looks on Sir Percy and Sir Andrew's faces. "Messieurs, I beg your forgiveness. The master is… not in the best of moods this evening and he is not entirely himself." In an aside in French too quick for Sir Andrew to follow, Lumiere muttered, "Or rather, he is too _much _like himself."

"If we are intruding," Sir Andrew said, in careful French, "we would be just as happy to eat up in our rooms."

"Nonsense!" said a kindly woman with a British accent, coming up behind them with a tea tray. "I won't hear of it. It isn't every day we get guests who know how to take their tea with clotted cream. Bless you both for coming. I'm Mrs. Potts, the housekeeper. Now, I hope you don't mind I've infringed on your territory a bit, Lumiere, but we wouldn't want our guests getting the sniffles, and Belle does like a nice cup of chamomile. Calms the master right down, too." With the sort of implacable and determined good cheer of every matronly housekeeper who felt she could solve all the problems of the world with a nice cup of Darjeeling, Mrs. Potts made them walk in and bow.

The prince was a handsome, well-built fellow with a classical profile and an expression of pained politeness. Belle held onto his arm with an expression of complete contentment that Sir Percy was at something of a loss to explain.

"Welcome to my castle," the prince said with only a slightly forced graciousness. "It is a pleasure."

Sir Percy and Sir Andrew glanced at each other at the obvious lie, but Sir Percy assumed his usual, slightly inane smile and bowed. "The pleasure is truthfully all ours, Your Highness. Your graciousness does you credit."

The prince looked bored already.

Belle smiled up at the prince, regardless. "Really, it is wonderful to still have guests. Shall we head into dinner?" The prince looked largely indifferent, but, because his wife had asked, did as she bid.

It was not a particularly fortuitous beginning and thus Sir Percy exerted himself considerably to use all the gallantry and amiability he had at his disposal. He was well rewarded for his efforts; after the second course, everyone behaved as if they had known each other for years instead of hours. The prince, though he had seemed rather boorish and difficult to please, could not remain so when his wife appeared to have such a god time in conversation. In fact, the prince delighted in Sir Percy's tales of his schoolboy exploits (generally with Sir Percy as the ringleader and the rest of his and Andrew's friends as their almost unthinking accomplices). Sir Percy liked recounting the tales himself. He had a natural flair for the dramatic and an acting ability that came from pretending to be far stupider than he was throughout all of boarding school and through all the following years- mostly to get those around him to like him. After all, everyone got along with rich, amiable imbeciles, and after a childhood marked by parental neglect, Sir Percy had been desperate for approval and attention.

Belle herself proved to be a natural storyteller and, after some conversation on books Belle and Sir Percy had both read and enjoyed (though Percy no longer read as voraciously as he did when he was a child; the ability to make and enjoy his own adventures gave him more pleasure than reading about someone else's), entertained them all with stories of her father's inventions.

Sir Andrew and the prince, in the meantime, had discovered a mutual aversion to reading simply because neither of them had been particularly good at it as children, and the deficiencies of their educations limited their fondness for the written word. They also discovered that they were of the same slightly melodramatic frame of mind and, when forced to read, they were fond of the same over-dramatic poetry and prose that left the reader without a shadow of a doubt as to the author's meaning.

"Come again to diner tomorrow!" the prince almost ordered. He glanced down the table at Belle and added on a, "If you like."

"We should be glad to," Sir Percy replied. "I fear that we cannot return your hospitality, however; Ffoulkes and I are staying at the inn, er… hopefully staying at an inn in town before we have to press on into Italy."

"I won't hear of your staying in the inn when we have so many rooms here," Belle informed them. "Send for your things once the storm's over; please stay with us."

Ffoulkes uneasily mimed overhearing the prince and princess's conversation, and Sir Percy said, "Please, princess, we two strangers should not like to intrude on the privacy of a newly married couple. If we have entertained you for the evening, then I hope that should be, in some small measure, repayment for your kindness towards us."

"It was not," the prince replied, rather brusquely.

Belle glanced at him over the rim of her wineglass. "Beast?"

The prince cleared his throat. "Forgive me. You have… overpaid your debt, Sir Percy and Sir Andrew. Please allow us to be your hosts to… get rid… of our new debt… to you." He looked down the table at Belle with an 'am-I-doing-this-right?' sort of look.

She offered her husband a beatific smile.

"Well, if you put it like that," Sir Andrew said, without any clear idea of how he would end the sentence.

"We have no choice but to accept," Sir Percy finished.

"You must forgive him," Belle said, once they had finished dinner and adjourned to the parlor. Sir Andrew and the prince sat playing cards on the other side of the room, which suited their intellect and temperament much better than discussing Beaumarchais's latest play, which Belle and Sir Percy had been doing. "The prince grew up alone except for the servants and he's used to having his way."

"I suppose I am lucky to have gone off to boarding school," Sir Percy replied. "I gew up among servants myself. My mother was… ill when I was younger and my father was always busy seeking cures. Once she died, however, it was off to boarding school with me. I met Sir Andrew the first day there, and we've been nigh on inseparable ever since. Ah, speaking of Sir Andrew, you must forgive us if we at all intruded on your privacy. We hardly wish to be unwanted guests."

"Oh no!" Belle exclaimed. "I can honestly say that that was the best dinner we've had in months." She smiled, very gently. "We were both very alone before we married and being continually in a crowd is almost worse than being on your own."

"I know precisely what you mean," Sir Percy said, before a flash of memory once brought Marguerite Saint-Just to the forefront of his mind.

"_I love having an audience," Mademoiselle Saint- Just said, with a laugh. She had a beautiful laugh that sparkled just as much as her smiles or her wit or her dark blue eyes. "The problem is that I've been on stage so long everyone's an audience. It grows so exhausting to be continually onstage."_

"_I know precisely what you mean," Sir Percy said. "Lud love me, everyone expects to see a good show or else out comes the truth or out come the rumors, and those are often better than truth."_

_Mademoiselle Saint-Just favored him with a smile that made Sir Percy's heart suddenly speed up. "Court life is really so similar to the stage?"_

"_It's even more complicated, I fear," Sir Percy replied. "On stage, you may rely on the wit of Moliere. In court, you must rely on your own wit and demme if I wasn't in the back of the line when God started passin' 'em out."_

_She laughed again. Sir Percy wanted to do nothing more than make her laugh. When she laughed everything in the world seemed suddenly perfect and Sir Percy felt honestly and genuinely clever for the first time in his life. "I can see why _you _move through society with such ease_._"_

Belle had been talking. "… but I am glad I managed to interest my husband in going to the theatre more often, even if he still dislikes the crowds there."

"He… seems to do a great deal to bring you pleasure," Sir Percy said.

"He changed a lot out of love for me," Belle confided, with a sweetness and contentment Sir Percy almost envied.

The prince saved Sir Percy from the struggle to find some suitable response by winning a round of cards against Sir Andrew.

"Oh, good show Your Highness!" Sir Andrew exclaimed. "And I'm out."

"Thank you," the prince said, with the rehearsed diligence of schoolboy who had been forced to repeat a lesson over and over again. "You played very well, Sir Andrew. It was a pleasure. Belle?"

She turned from Sir Percy and smiled. "Yes, Beast?"

The prince held out his hand to her. "Shall we go to bed?"

"Of course." She stood and took his arm. "Goodnight, Sir Andrew, Sir Percy."

"Goodnight," the prince echoed. "Feel free to wander around the castle. The library is on the second floor, if you want to get a book, and the servants would be happy to get you anything you asked for once you ring the bell." He walked out, but paused in the hall to kiss his wife. "I love you, Belle."

"I love you too, Beast." She spoke with such calm sincerity, such quiet conviction that Sir Percy's heart almost ached. He wanted desperately to have someone speak to him like that. It filled him with a restless dissatisfaction that robbed all sleep from him. Mrs. Potts had brought him up a tea-tray "just in case he or his valet felt at all peckish in the middle of the night", and, after pulling on his dressing gown, he grabbed it and walked out of his bedroom.

Sir Percy wandered the halls in search of the library. He had to admit, the castle was something else entirely. It looked like an illustration from a book of fairy tales, all suits of armor and strange, ever-changing shadows. When he had been younger, he delighted in those sorts of castles, all strange, distant history, so far removed from the present it was exciting and seemed like a story more than any actual _history_.

He reached the library with very little trouble and pulled out the first book he found, a medieval romance in King Arthur's court called _Sir Yvain the Knight of the Lion_. It was very charmingly written and very well translated, but Sir Percy soon gave up his attempts to read. He was much too… too….

It was a strange, unsettled feeling. He wanted so much more out of life than what he had, and-

"I AM NEVER SPEAKING TO YOU AGAIN LUMIERE!" someone shrieked, flying into the room and slamming the door behind her. She locked the door, leaned against it, and crossed her arms, clearly sulking.

Sir Percy looked up anxiously. "Ah… Babette, was it?"

"Oh, Monsieur, I am so sorry to have disturbed you!" the maid said, adjusting her apron and hat. She offered him a coquettish smile and Sir Percy couldn't help but smile back in response.

"Are you quite alright? You seem to be in, an, er… spot of…."

"Babette! It meant nothing!" Lumiere shouted from the other side of the door.

"YOU TELL THAT TO VERONIQUE AND LUCILLE! OH BABETTE, THEY SAY, WE WERE WITH LUMIERE ALL NIGHT, LOOKS LIKE YOU HAVE TO HAVE FEATHERS TO KEEP HIS ATTENTION!" Babette turned back from shouting through the door with a perfectly charming smile. She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. "Forgive me, Monsieur, for the _dreadful _imposition. I am fine, merci."

"Oh no, take your time." Sir Percy attempted to return to his book and failed miserably.

"Babette, my dear one! I like you with or without your feathers!"

"BUT YOU LIKE VERONIQUE AND LUCILLE MORE!"

"Would you care for a cup of tea?" Sir Percy asked politely. "I've another cup. Besides, that must be a dem strain on the vocal chords."

"Oh, yes!" Babette exclaimed, rather charmingly. "Oh how charming the English are, no? That is very thoughtful of you, Monsieur."

"Anything for a beautiful woman," Sir Percy replied. "Sugar?"

"Babette!" Lumiere called, pounding on the door. "You ought to know how I adore you! My every waking moment-"

"MY HEART IS BREAKING SO LOUDLY I CANNOT HEAR YOU!" Babette yelled. "Yes, two please."

"Here you are. Will you sit?"

She flounced over and took the cup and the proffered seat with a thoroughly seductive sort of grace. "Thank you again, Monsieur! The English! Always so very courteous, no? Unlike some I could name…."

"What exactly did Monsieur Lumiere do?" Sir Percy inquired, taking his seat again.

Babette glanced up at him over the rim of the cup. "Hm? I am… not entirely sure. Veronique and Lucille didn't say anything else. It must be _very _bad, though, if he's still pounding on the door." She set down her cup and folded her arms, turning her nose up into the air and pouting. "Hmph. He can keep pounding away all he likes, then."

Sir Percy grinned. "Wise words, Mademoiselle."

"Babette! Let me in!"

"No!"

"Come now, cherie! I love you!"

"Nooooo!" She had a very musical inflection to her tone that reminded Sir Percy pleasantly of… blast. Marguerite Saint- Just. Again.

This was beginning to get extremely pathetic.

"YOU DO NOT REALLY LOOOOOOOOVE MEEEEEE!" she continued on, now looking thoroughly put out. "YOU JUST LIIIIIIIIIIIE AND LIIIIIIIIIIIE TO ME, LUMIERE!"

"But I do love you! Nothing in the world so thrills me as your smile, Babette!"

"OH NO!"

"Oh yes!"

"I BET VERONIQUE AND LUCILLE THRILL YOU MORE THAN MY SMILES!"

"Oh no!"

"OH YES!"

Sir Percy shook with silent laughter. Babette threw him a half-flirtatious, half-curious glance. "Aaah, I amuse Monsieur?"

"F- forgive me," Sir Percy said, grinning. "I do not mean to make light of your- your, ah, lover's quarrel."

"Oh, I do," Babette said, with a charming earnestness. "Half the reason I do this is because it is so much _fun_." She leaned forward, with the all the automatic flirtatiousness common to most French women of Sir Percy's acquaintance. "I let you in on a little secret- I am never half as angry as I pretend to be. Don't tell Lumiere that, though." She pressed a finger to his lips.

He had to admit, Babette knew her tactics.

"I would not dream of it, Mademoiselle."

Lumiere attempted, once again, to fight a battle for which he was clearly unprepared. "Babette! My own one, how can you think a heart as tender and steadfast as mine would ever stray?"

"BECAUSE I KNEW YOU BEFORE YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME!"

"But true love changes a man! I have not so much as kissed the cheek of any woman but you since-"

"YES YOU HAVE!"

"When?"

"YESTERDAY."

"Babette, this is France. I kiss Cogsworth on the cheeks too, but does that make him your rival?"

"_DOES IT_ LUMIERE? OH THE SHAAAAAAAAAAAME!"

"Would you like a refill, Mademoiselle?" Sir Percy asked, picking up the teapot.

"If you would be so kind?" She held out her cup with a pretty flourish. "Merci Monsieur!"

"Babette, you are hardly one to throw stones! What about Pierre?"

"MARIANNE!"

"Jean-Luc!"

"SUZANNE!"

"Armand!"

Babette leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, with an appealing flash of leg and ankle. "Make yourself comfortable, Monsieur. This could easily go on for hours. HENRIETTE!"

"Frank!"

"Does he mean Frank Benyon, my valet?" Sir Percy asked.

Babette laughed, a bright, appealing sound, like the burbling of a brook. "Yes! It was funnier than _Cogsworth_. Your gentleman, he does not get out much, does he not? FIFI!"

Sir Percy laughed as well. "Not as such."

"Antonio!" Lumiere shouted back.

"FABIENNE!"

"How could you think I kissed _Fabienne_?" Lumiere asked, aggravated. "She used to be a _trashcan._ Babette, I will break this door down if you don't come out and talk to me!"

"I WILL NOT!" Babette pursed her lips. "Hm. I very much hate to impose on you again, Monsieur, but might I play off of you in a moment?"

"I am at your service."

She beamed at him. "Merci!"

Lumiere, by the sounds of it, attempted to run at the door to break it down. Babette counted on her fingers then swung open the door, causing Lumiere to run in skid to a much bewildered stop, and land in a heap in front of Sir Percy.

Sir Percy made a grand show of looking up from his book. "Good evening, Lumiere. Zounds, man, you seem to be in something of a hurry."

Lumiere sprung up and bowed elaborately. "Please forgive me, milor, for disturbing your leisure reading but internal affairs-" he glared at Babette "-have come to boil."

"Oh, _Lumiere_!" Babette exclaimed, shutting the door and mincing her way over to them. "Look! You disturbed a guest in the castle. And you call yourself maitre d'!"

"Are you revoking my name priviliages, now?" Lumiere demanded, before turning back to Sir Percy. "I do apologize again, milor. Now, Babette, if you would just come with-"

Babette whacked Lumiere on the shoulder. "_Lu-mi-ere! _I am surprised at you! Poor Sir Percy!" Without further ado, she sat on Sir Percy's lap and picked up the teapot and his empty cup. "Let me refresh your cup."

Sir Percy could not quite describe Lumiere's expression and instead settled for watching Babette pour tea as seductively as possible. It was actually quite an experience.

"Here you are, milor," Babette purred. She lifted her eyebrows to remind him to play along and then pressed the rim of the cups to his lips. Well, Marguerite Saint- Just be damned. He obediently sipped his tea. It wasn't every day that a pretty Frenchwoman hand-fed him.

Though… it would be awfully nice if Marguerite Saint- Just was doing it.

Babette dabbed at his lips with a corner of her lacey white apron. "Enjoy it, milor?"

"Well demme if I have ever had better." Sir Percy tried to keep himself from laughing. "Odd's fish, there is much to be said for French hospitality."

Lumiere was in torment. "Babette!"

"Lumiere-was-I-talking-to-you?" Babette demanded, her smile ever sweeter. "I am _so _pleased you liked it, milor."

"Babette, why are you-"

"Ah-ah-ah! Have I been talking to you Lumiere? No?" Babette put down the teacup and crossed her legs. "Can I get you anything else, milor? Anything at all to make your stay more… comfortable?"

Sir Percy could hear Lumiere grinding his teeth. "Why, no, but thank you. You're extremely accommodating."

"I do try," Babette said modestly. "Now, Lumiere, _I _am going to bed."

Lumiere raised his eyebrows. "A peace offering, Babette?"

She slid off Sir Percy's lap and considered this. "Nope! Goodnight!" She sashayed away.

"You two have a very unusual relationship," Sir Percy commented.

"Very," Lumiere agreed, rubbing his face. "I adore the minx. I think she loves me. Sometimes. It's hard to tell. She does get jealous on a regular basis."

"There has to be more to love than that," Sir Percy said.

"Love makes you unbelievably happy. And this… more or less, makes us happy, strange as it seems. Ah, l'amour!" Lumiere rolled his eyes but followed after Babette none-the-less. Love seemed extremely strange, and caused people to act even stranger, but, all the same, Sir Percy rather wanted to know what it was like.

Particularly with one-

He groaned and sunk into his seat. Odd's fish, what a terribly confusing thing love was. He doubted anyone at all knew what it was. It didn't even make sense to him and he had the most objective view of it of anyone in the castle since he wasn't in love himself-

Well, as far as he knew.


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the week passed uneventfully but pleasantly. Then, one morning, Sir Percy woke up and couldn't tie his cravat properly.

That was a Sign that something was terribly, terribly wrong in the world.

"Sir?" Frank asked, holding up a navy blue coat.

"Er- no, the green one. Yes. That one." Sir Percy stared hopelessly at his cravat. "Well, demme, the instructions look demmed easy, but the knot don't lie down like in the drawing."

"Allow me, sir." Frank scanned the magazine. "Pull the left side down more before the double Winsor knot."

"Aaaah." Sir Percy carefully did so, and met with much success. "There! Nothin' like a well-tied cravat to begin your morning. What are you looking like that for, Frank? I give you leave to speak as _frankly _as you like. Ha ha!"

"That joke never fails to amuse, sir," Frank replied. He held out Sir Percy's coat and cleared his throat. "Sir… if it… is not to bold, I would humbly request that we leave this castle as soon as possible."

Sir Percy buttoned his coat. "I'm surprised at you, Frank! You and Cogsworth seem the best of friends, and Babette flirts with you just as much as she flirts with Sir Andrew or Lumiere."

"I am not the sort of gentleman's gentleman who chases French maids, particularly when they think…." Frank sighed and rubbed his forehead. "They-think-that-they-used-to-be-feather-dusters."

"What?"

Frank looked extremely pained. "I believe there must be something in the air that promotes this sort of insanity, sir. All the domestic staff believe that they were, at one point in time… objects."

"Even Cogsworth?"

"A clock, sir."

"And Lumiere? He doesn't seem the type-"

"A candelabra, sir. Babette- that is the feather duster, sir- apparently has… scars from where Lumiere could not quite… extinguish the literal flames of his passion. They vex her very greatly."

"Well, then, Mrs. Potts, the housekeep-"

"A teapot, sir. Her son was a teacup. He talks frequently about sleeping on shelves."

Sir Percy blinked. "Well, demme. And the prince-"

"A horrible furry beast, sir. With fangs and claws."

"Zounds man, this defies any kind of logic there is in the world!" Sir Percy exclaimed, turning to look at Frank more fully. "Are you sure?"

Frank sighed. "Indeed, sir. The kitchen staff showed me their scars from when they, as cutlery, got into a vicious argument with the prince's guards- all suits of armor, sir. I knew the staff behaved with rather more familiarity than normal, but…."

"And… how, exactly did they think this… transformation occur?"

"I, er… missed that part, sir," Frank replied, looking deeply uncomfortable.

"Say, Frank… how did you find out about this?" Sir Percy asked.

Frank blushed deeply. "I, er… I… it is my custom to go down to the servant's hall after you dress for dinner, sir, but, ah… I… heard the household staff talking and their conversation was so strange that it quite froze me to my spot. I- I hesitate to say that I… there is no excuse for- for- for-"

"Eavesdropping?"

Frank whimpered.

"Odd's fish, Frank, it ain't as if you give your word to someone and broke it. If Sir Andrew or I had heard- er, well, I'd do the same and Sir Andrew would probably just keep walking on obliviously." Sir Percy frowned at his reflection. "Well, my mother was as crazy as they came and that didn't stop her from enjoying life… er, no. It did, towards the end when she didn't recognize anyone anymore and she started thinkin' she was a fish."

"It… sir, we are staying in a madhouse." Frank looked frazzled. "Please, sir, I beg you to reconsider our accommodations."

"You sure they just weren't playin' a joke on you?" Sir Percy asked.

"They sounded perfectly serious," Frank said. "If you will excuse me, Sir, I should like to lock myself in the room and have a nervous breakdown."

"Should I have tea sent up for you?" Sir Percy asked.

Frank shuddered. "Absolutely not, sir."

"I'll… go talk to Belle, shall I?"

It was with rather more reserve than Sir Percy had used in the past week that Sir Percy approached the princess."Er, Your Highness?"

"Yes?" Belle asked, looking up from her book. "Oh, hello, Sir Percy! You can still call me Belle, you know."

"Er, Belle, I think your staff pulled a joke on Frank," Sir Percy said carefully. "It was demmed clever of them, but, er… he's now taken to locking himself in my room and having nervous breakdowns. Oh, and he thinks we're stayin' in a madhouse."

Belle frowned. "I can't believe they would do something like that. What did they tell him?"

"You won't believe it," Sir Percy replied, with a laugh. "Frank overheard 'em sayin' they had been under a curse for the past ten years. They had all been mops and dustpans. Ha ha!"

Belle did not laugh, which was another Sign that something was not right. Sir Percy made himself so generally agreeable and put himself out to make everyone laugh (even at himself, if there was no other object) that he met with great success. He had met with_ unerring_ success with Belle and her husband (Sir Percy never had found out what his name was), since both of them wanted friends as much as Sir Percy often did.

"Er, it… was all a good joke, wasn't it?" Sir Percy asked uncertainly.

"Y-yes," Belle replied, flushing a little. She was a demmed terrible liar, but what on earth could she be lying about? Had she gone crazy too?

There might be something in the water?

"I- ah- have you read this tract by Abbe Sieyes? _What is the Third Estate_?" Belle grabbed it and shoved it into Sir Percy's hands. "I admit- I was- I am- I like fiction much better than non-fiction but it is extremely important to be aware of- of the wider world and… oh, look at the time! I have to…!"

She bolted.

"Well," said Sir Percy to the pamphlet, "that was another sign, wasn't it?"

The pamphlet, being an inanimate object, was unable to agree with him.

Sir Percy then wandered out into the hall, feeling deeply suspicious. Three signs of something wrong in a single day- well, something was definitely going on and Sir Percy was quite determined to discover just what it was.

He luckily stumbled upon Babette, who had decided that the best method of dusting was to run past objects and wave her duster in their general direction. Lumiere apparently thought this was an absolutely brilliant cleaning method and was doing much the same thing as he ran after her. Sir Percy gamely stood out of the way.

Babette reached the grand staircase in the foyer and turned to look behind her. Lumiere bounded forward and unfortunately ran straight into Cogsworth.

"Lumiere, if you _will stop chasing Babette!_" Cogsworth snarled.

"That is my one goal in life," Lumiere replied chipperly, seizing Babette around the waist.

"Hmph, _keeping _is harder than _catching_," Babette said, dusting Lumiere's face with her feather duster. He sneezed and she slid out of his arms, blew him a kiss, and dashed off.

"_Don't you have chores_?" Cogsworth demanded.

"Finished them!" Lumiere glanced around.

Sir Percy pointed. "That way, up the stairs."

Lumiere bowed with a flourish. "I am immeasurably in your debt!" He ran up after her, taking the stairs two at a time.

Cogsworth looked red and nearly apoplectic with rage. "I am- really, Sir Percy, I apologize- if anyone here ever listened to a word I say and if Babette and Lumiere were not so insufferably _French _all the time and-"

"Come, come, love, they're making up for lost time," Mrs. Potts said, appearing with her ever-present tea tray. "Can you blame them?"

"_Yes_!"

"Lost time?" Sir Percy asked. Was Frank right?

Mrs. Potts nodded. "Well, yes. For the past ten years they've been-" She realized when she was saying and abruptly split tea all over the table. "Well, they've been…."

"Lumiere's had a _problem_," Cogsworth said, with particular relish. "Terribly embarrassing, doesn't like to talk about it-"

"You mean, he was a candlestick?" Sir Percy asked, testing the waters.

Mrs. Potts dropped her tea-pot with a crash.

"Odd's fish, Frank was right!" Sir Percy looked sharply at Cogsworth. "What exactly is going on? Is it safe for Sir Andrew and Frank and myself to stay here?"

Cogsworth's shoulders sagged. "And we hid it so well after the wedding!"

"The truth will always out," Mrs. Potts said, cleaning up the shattered bits of porcelain. "Sake's alive, I am sorry, old friend. I know how scary a fall used to be." She sighed. "Sir Percy, we never meant for any of you to find out."

Cogworth sighed. "Ten years ago, when the master was eleven, an old woman came to the castle and asked for shelter from the snowstorm outside. In exchange for his hospitality, she offered him a single red rose. Lumiere and Mrs. Potts nearly had her smuggled in through the servant's entrance, but in the process of doing so, they had neglected the master's calls for them. The master came down himself and, reviled by the crone's appearance, tried to throw her out. Naturally, this greatly upset the crone who turned out to be not a crone at all, but a particularly vengeful enchantress. She turned the master into a beast and the rest of us into- into objects." Cogsworth cringed. "And now everyone in England will think I've gone insane and when I finally retire to my little cottage in Portsmouth I shall be shunned by all of society."

"Here," Mrs. Potts said, getting down a box. "This is- well, take a look at this. It's a magic mirror. The Enchantress hadn't meant to turn the lot of us into objects and she felt a mite bad about how we could never leave the castle again. This shows you anything you ask for."

Sir Percy took the mirror uncertainly. His mother's insanity had been the obvious kind you dealt with via strong, burly nurses and sedatives and it made Sir Percy incredibly uneasy to be around people who seemed so _normal_. "Alright… show me, er… Marguerite Saint-Just?"

She appeared in the mirror, sipping a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper, her hair loose around her shoulders. It was exactly like- the classic brow with the auerole of auburn hair--free at the moment from any powder; the sweet, almost childlike mouth, the straight chiselled nose, round chin, and delicate throat, the graceful, regal figure under her white peignoir-

"Gadzooks!" Sir Percy exclaimed. "What is this?"

"A… magic mirror," Cogsworth said.

"Stop doing that," Sir Percy told the mirror, waving it to get rid of the image. "Gadzooks! As nice as it is to see her again, I feel like some sort of blasted voyeur."

"You see?" said Mrs. Potts. "Magic?"

"I ain't seein' anythin' but proof that insanity's in the family," said Sir Percy. "Odd's fish, I always hoped I'd take after my father, but looks like dear old mum passed on her scrambled brains to me."

"Oh no, not in the least," exclaimed Mrs. Potts. "You just happen to be in an enchanted castle."

"Of course," said Sir Percy. "That's the first thing that pops to mind when I can see an actress in Paris while bein' about a week's hard riding to the north-east."

Cogsworth squirmed in place. "I realize that is sounds a little ridiculous-"

"I ain't all that sure that you do," said Sir Percy.

Mrs. Potts said, "Oh sir, he does know how ridiculous it sounds."

Sir Percy remained extremely dubious. "And he keeps on sayin' it? Odd's fish, I ain't bright enough to sort all this out. I'm going for a ride- I'll probably be out past diner. Please give my apologies to Their Highnesses and tell Frank, will you?"

Since Sir Percy had gotten into the habit of wearing riding dress more-or-less constantly while in Belle's castle it was a very simple matter to go to the stables, saddle his horse and then ride hell for leather through the countryside. With exercise came the wonderful absence of thought, the ability to act without thinking, the wonderful clarity of singular purpose and action.

It really didn't matter if he had lost his mind while riding after all.

Well, it probably did, but since Sir Percy managed to survive his ride and return in time for dinner, it was not a very grave concern.

Sir Percy bounded up the stairs to his room, feeling much refreshed. He met his valet in the hallway.

"Oh hallo," said Sir Percy, self-consciously brushing at his muddy riding boots and breeches. "You alright, old chap?"

Frank looked incredibly shaken.

"They show you the magic mirror?" Sir Percy asked.

Frank nodded slowly. "And… sir? I think insanity is contagious. There is no other possible explanation."

"Is Ffoulkes crazy yet?"

"… no, sir, but I should think the pleasantness and steadiness of his character would forestall any… signs of his madness."

"You mean, he's too stupid to realize what's going on."

"In a matter of speaking, sir."

"Well I ain't got any brains either, and I saw the mirror and everything. Frank, perhaps it's like that writing cove said, about there being more to heaven and earth in a philosophy."

"Are you in fact referring to Shakespeare, sir?"

"Probably," said Sir Percy, whose time at Eton had only served to make him relatively sure that if he managed to say something intelligent it was the result of studying Shakespeare. "Or, you know, we might just have all gone barmy."

"I lean towards the latter, sir."

"It'd be nicer if it were the first one."

"I doubt it, sir. You would not be particularly pleased to sleep in an animate bed."

Sir Percy contemplated this a moment. "I think you're right Frank." He paused. "And… now that we've established that there's something demmed odd goin' odd, what do we do about it?"

"You could dress for dinner, sir," replied Frank.

"Good plan. Go tell the princess I'll be at the table after all?"

Frank bowed and walked off, leaving Sir Percy to go into his room and strip off his coat. He went to the closet to get out a new shirt and was extremely alarmed to hear muffled conversation. Much had been said about the whisper of silks and the rustle of good fabric, but it made Sir Percy extremely uneasy to think his shirts were holding a debate.

Perhaps… it was an enchanted castle?

It defied all reason, yes, but the attack on the Bastille had defied all reason too. Why on earth would a bunch of peasants attack a well-fortified fortress full of soldiers? Yet they did and through some miracle they _won._ Perhaps there was more to life than he had ever thought. Sir Percy bravely approached his closet door. Perhaps there was more to heaven and earth in his philosophy-

"Oh, Lumiere!"

-or perhaps there was just a naked maid and maitre d' in his closet.

That was still something very unexpected in heaven and earth than was found in his philosophy, however.

Sir Percy shut the door to the closet and attempted to vacate the room. Frank, however, appeared at the doorway with a tin of boot polish and a boot brush.

"I… don't… think I need to change for dinner," Sir Percy said.

Frank looked down at Sir Percy's trousers. "Sir, I beg to differ."

"Well," said Sir Percy, "they are _my _trousers and I am the one wearin' 'em." He attempted to edge by Frank, but it is extremely hard to edge by anyone when you are over six feet tall and considerably muscled from constantly boxing, riding, and fencing from the age of four to the age of four and twenty.

"Yes, sir, but you are a _guest _in this household. It is only polite to change one's muddy trousers before diner." Frank could have applied his sarcasm with a wheelbarrow. Manners were everything in the court life of eighteenth century France and England. If one broke a rule at Versailles, or went against the societal norms in even so minor a way as appearing in court in last week's suit, it meant immediate social disgrace and ruin. Sir Percy had been very good at navigating these treacherous waters, half because he made a great effort to acclimate himself to his environment, and half because Frank knew just about everything there was to know about fashion and etiquette.

"Yes, Frank, but this is a very informal sort of court."

"No _court _is informal enough to accept _muddy trousers _at the dinner table."

"Odd's fish, Frank! I'll be sittin', with a napkin 'round my waist the whole time. No one will see my trousers at all, let alone a few splatters of dirt on my knee."

"Sir!" Frank exclaimed, cutting off another of Sir Percy's escape attempts. "_A few splatters_? The mud up the side of your leg is large enough to be a scale model of _India_."

Sir Percy glanced at it. It did look a bit like India from the side. "Frank, I am _surprised _at you! Zounds, man, you've never even seen India! How can you judge a country by its shape? In protest, I will continue to wear these trousers!"

Frank was Not Amused. "Sir, my objection had nothing at all to do with India and everything to do with the significant quantity of mud on your trousers." He narrowed his eyes. "I refuse to argue further on the subject, sir. You _must _change your trousers."

"But it… it would ruin this carefully created ensemble!" Sir Percy protested.

"Sir," Frank replied, in the carefully controlled tones of a tutor dealing with a particularly stupid child who had managed to glue himself to a wall, "you are wearing white culottes. You have twelve pairs of white culottes with you, and ten more back in England. There is absolutely nothing to differentiate your current trousers from any of the other pairs except for the enormous splatter of mud which, by the way, sir, _already _ruined your ensemble." He glared at Sir Percy. "I shall get you another pair of culottes for the purposes of comparison. It will shock you to discover the difference between _clean _and _dirty_." He strode purposefully over to the closet until Sir Percy dragged him back.

"You can't!" Sir Percy hissed, pulling Frank out into the hallway. "There's currently a partially clothed French maid and maitre d' on my clean trousers."

"In your closet?" Frank asked, looking dumbfounded.

"Yes," Sir Percy admitted, cringing.

"Why your closet, sir?"

"I was supposed to be out past dinner, if you recall," Sir Percy replied.

Frank frowned. "All the same, sir, your closet is within my personal realm of control. They ought to have applied to me before performing illicit acts in there."

"As amusing as your objections are, they are not helping the current situation at all, Frank."

"Er… not as such, sir."

"I could… just… go back to the stables?"

Frank frowned. "Not when the princess expects you at dinner, Sir Percy. Think of the asymmetry of the table!"

"Think of the people in my closet!"

"I had hoped to avoid that mental image, sir. I think I may have to pour bleach in my ear to rid myself of it."

"I'll pay for it. We could wait?"

"The dinner gong should ring in a quarter of an hour," Frank pointed out, sounding rather miffed. "Sir, there is very little time."

"I suppose we can't go off in search of the key to my room," Sir Percy mused. "What shall we do, then?"

They settled for a very bad bit of loud improvisation.

"Well, Frank," Sir Percy well nigh shouted into the keyhole. "It appears that I have muddied my riding breeches. I ought to change before dinner!"

"I HEARTILY AGREE, SIR," Frank bellowed. Frank, though generally the soul of discretion, had the acting ability of a rock. "LET ME UNLOCK THE DOOR TO YOUR ROOM SO THAT YOU MAY GET CLEAN TROUSERS AND CHANGE!"

"That sounds like quite a good plan," Sir Percy declared.

"I BELIEVE SO, SIR, THANK YOU."

They waited a few moments. Sir Percy checked his pocket watch. Blast, ten minutes to the dinner gong.

"THE DOOR IS OPENING," Frank announced. He nudged it open. "STILL OPENING. OPENING AGAIN! OH LOOK, NOW IT IS HALF-WAY OPEN. THREE-QUARTERS… THERE! IT IS OPEN NOW!"

"Masterfully done, Frank," Sir Percy muttered.

Since the room was still empty, Frank bravely closed his eyes, opened the closet door and stuck an arm in. "I AM LOOKING FOR A PAIR OF WHITE KNEE BREECHES, A PAIR OF STOCKINGS, A LIGHT BLUE WAISTCOAT AND A DARKER BLUE COAT."

Someone very kindly put them into Frank's hands and Sir Percy dressed as hurriedly as possible. He was distracted during dinner with the effort of figuring out just what the hell was going on.

At the nuts and oranges stage of the meal, Sir Percy rather suddenly said, "Belle? Might I beg a private interview?"

Belle hesitated and then, shoulders slumping, said, "Of course."

She soon left them to their port and they did not linger long. Sir Andrew and the prince went to play some sort of noisy dice game and Sir Percy found Belle in the library, Lumiere hovering in the background as inobtrusively as possible.

"Your Highness," Sir Percy said, with a perfect bow. "Hate to bring this up, but d'you think I've gone mad?"

"… no?"

"Good. And Frank ain't insane either?"

"I don't think so."

Sir Percy looked around the room, half interested in the wall-to-wall shelves reaching up and up and up. There really was no limit to human understanding, was there. "So… this is an enchanted castle, your husband used to be a beast, and all your servants used to be objects."

Belle's shoulders slumped again. "Yes."

"Alright," said Sir Percy. "Just wanted to make sure I wasn't goin' crazy, like my mother."

"I'm glad I could help," Belle replied.

"I noticed you all ain't objects anymore," Sir Percy informed Lumiere. "How'd that happen?"

Lumiere glanced at Belle. "Belle fell in love with the Master, and he loved her back. The spell was broken."

"Of course," said Sir Percy. "That makes perfect sense."

Belle cringed. "Not everything in the world makes perfect sense, especially when it comes to love."

"How'd you end up fallin' in love with a- with a beast, anways?"

"Well, you have to look past appearances," Belle replied, with a laugh. "Who someone is and what they appear to be are two entirely different things sometimes."

"But still, objects? I can't… I… there isn't any way to deny that ain't true now, but-" Sir Percy collapsed into an arm-chair. "Odd's fish! And I was confused enough already about Marguerite Saint-Just!"

"Who?"

Sir Percy flushed. "I, er… Marguerite Saint-Just. She's an actress. In Paris. Er."

"Oooh," Lumiere said, in a tone that indicated perfect understanding.

"Not that sort of actress," Sir Percy said, turning even redder. "She's well… demme, I don't know. I'm far too stupid for these kinds of things."

"Nonsense!" Belle exclaimed. "You're one of the most intelligent men I know. You're just so shy about it you think you're not."

Sir Percy had no idea what to say to that.

"The world is a very strange place," said Belle.

"Much stranger than I ever thought it was," said Sir Percy. "Really, objects?"

"Yes."

"And… you… broke the spell through the power of true love?"

Belle nodded.

Sir Percy considered this. "Well, more improbable things have happened."

Belle grinned at him. "I'm glad you believe us."

"Yes, but that don't mean I'm going to go around tellin' everyone I stayed at an enchanted castle on my way from France to India."

"Thank you!" Belle exclaimed, seizing his hand. "Thank you so much!"

"It ain't any trouble at all," replied Sir Percy, sitting down heavily. "Really. Believe me."

"Would you like a drink?" asked Lumiere.

"Love one."

Belle left them to their brandy, for which Sir Percy was extremely glad. He was in a mood to get so foxed he forgot which direction was up.

"Ah, falling in love with a Frenchwoman." Lumiere poured them two glasses. "It's not to be attempted by the faint of heart."

Sir Percy grinned. "Zounds, sir, whatever can you mean?"

"Have you ever flown a kite in a lightning storm?" Lumiere asked.

"Not that I can recall."

Lumiere waved airly and sat, propping his feet up on an ottoman. "It's sort of like that, only you have no idea if the kite or its string has metal in it, and you never learned how to fly a kite." He kissed his fingertips, in a very Gallic sort of gesture. "Ah, but it makes life worth living!"

"The fact that, any moment, you could die a very painful death?"

"Not in so many words," Lumiere said diplomatically. "It makes you feel alive! Not in the way that the specter of immanent death does, but, euh… alive. After all, they're always so much more than they appear."

Sir Percy drained his glass. "Well then, vive la France."

"Vive les francaises!" Lumiere added, downing his as well. "Ah, a pity you won't get to meet anymore of them. There is something to be said for the exoticism of India though, non?"

"Very true." Sir Percy absently twirled his wineglass by the stem. "Somehow… I think France remains unparalled in beauties. At the end of my tour, I wouldn't be surprised if I somehow found myself in Paris again."

"Bon chance!" Lumiere said, grinning. "You must come back and tell me how it goes."

Sir Percy set down his wineglass and stood. "If it goes anywhere…."

Lumiere waved away Sir Percy's pessimism. "Nonsense. Babette told me if she hadn't met me first, she'd run off with you in a trice. She may flirt with anything in trousers, but she has good judgment when it comes to sticking with people- which is all the more strange since she picked me, eh?" He clapped Sir Percy on the shoulder. "Not to worry, mon ami! Love shall triumph in the end."

Sir Percy remembered Lumiere's words when, two years later, he found himself walking down a street in Paris and caught sight of a figure so familiar he recognized her at once.

"Mademoiselle Saint- Just?"

She turned to him with a puzzled smile, and Sir Percy felt himself in a state of sudden nervous anxiety. One misstep, one wrong word and there would be no living with him for days- particularly if it meant he made a bad impression on Mademoiselle Saint-Just. "Yes?"

Sir Percy bowed, with all the grace brought on by years of practice. "Your servant, Mademoiselle. We met some time ago."

Mademoiselle Saint-Just looked uncertain. "Did… euh… yes, of course, you are… Sir…."

"Percy, Mademoiselle. Sir Percy Blakeney." He affected an inane grin, since he was far too nervous to actually smile. "We met once two years ago, and I, alas, have been so far from Paris that any recollection of it remained as vividly in my memory as if it happened days ago instead of years."

Mademoiselle Saint-Just looked pleased at the praises of her home. "What gallantry! It is a pleasure to meet you again, Sir Percy."

She held out her gloved hand to him and Sir Percy kissed it, feeling almost electrified by the touch.

Flying a kite in a thunderstorm? Perhaps. He looked up into Mademoiselle Saint- Just's dark blue eyes and actually smiled.

He had never felt so alive.


End file.
